Three Little Words
by walutahanga
Summary: AU. How Lindsey's life might have gone differently if Angel had handled him just a little bit differently at the end of 'A Blind Date'. Updated to proper format.


**Title:** Three Little Words

**Author:** walutahanga

**Disclaimer: **Angel is not mine.

**Summary:** _How Lindsey's life might have taken a different turn, had Angel handled him just a little differently in the aftermath of 'Blind Date'. A butterfly beats it's wings in Mexico, yaddah, yaddah... you get the idea._

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* * *

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Lindsey's walking out the door of Angel Investigations when Angel calls him back.

"Lindsey." There's no smile on Angel's face, and he looks like he'd rather bite out his tongue than be saying these words, and somehow that makes it mean more. Only the truth costs so much to say. "You did good."

Lindsey lets those words fill him up, buoy him up weightlessly.

"Thanks," he says, and for once there's no sarcasm in his voice, no biting wit. He has Angel's approval, maybe even… he lets his imagination run wild for a moment… some grudging respect. He doesn't think yet of redemption or absolution, or forgiveness and atonement. That will come later. Right at this moment all he is thinking is that he finally – _finally_ – has Angel's respect and it was worth the risk of firing and bloody dismemberment.

Later, he'll realize that this was how Angel saved him. With three little words.

* * *

Cordelia is intent on giving him a hard time from the start. She doesn't address him by name for the first month, preferring to come up with slogans like 'evil lawyer guy' and 'that festering pile of human scum who works for us and why is that again?' In a way, he kind of welcomes it. She reminds him of Lilah, and it's creepy to think that he'd get to the point where he'd think of banter with a snotty bitch as a comfort zone, but there you go.

Wesley is more reserved, watching Lindsey with wide blue eyes behind glasses, keeping his thoughts to himself. He gives Lindsey the creeps. That's watchers for you: always watching, never divulging.

The only one worse is Gunn who joins them not long after. It takes about three sentences grand total for he and Lindsey to throw down, and Lindsey ends up on the floor of Cordelia's apartment with a bloody nose and the thought that if he wanted to be threatened on a daily basis by his co-workers, he would have stayed with Wolfram and Hart.

Eventually, though, they fall into a rhythm. Cordelia has the visions. Wesley does all the research. Gunn helps Angel when he needs some muscle. Lindsey is the public face, the smooth charisma that assures their clients that yes, they do actually know what they're doing. He conducts interviews and tries to correct Cordelia's filing system and grumbles about the lack of decent coffee.

He misses his six figure salary, and his apartment (even if he had been able to afford the upkeep, Wolfram and Hart had torched the place as a way of burning bridges). After the office is blown up, he only manages to stay three days at Cordelia's apartment before the unrestrained viterol drives him to find his own accommodation. She makes it clear that hiring him wasn't her idea and that she'd be perfectly happy to kick him out on his ass if it wasn't for Wesley's reluctant reminder that they really do need Lindsey's expertise. At least the ghost is quietly accommodating in his own way, and can't insult Lindsey every five seconds.

It's Angel, though, that really drives Lindsey up the wall. Except for those three small words that made Lindsey give up his flashy apartment and good job to work for possibly the worst detective agency in LA, he's said nothing in the way of praise. Not even a 'good work' like he'll give to Wesley or the concerned 'are you okay?' when Cordelia gets a vision. Lindsey might as well be a desk or a piece of furniture.

* * *

He's just about fed up when Cordelia calls him one night.

"Look, I know you're evil and stuff, but Wesley and Angel aren't answering and you're the only one I can get hold of."

"Whatever. If you need help picking out a dress for a hot date, call Lilah. Fashion tips are the only thing she won't lie to you about." He keeps flipping channels on his tiny tv. The apartment is shitty, but it's better than living with Cordelia's constant bitching or moving in with fang-boy at the hotel.

"I had a vision, dumbass" she says. "Gunn's in danger and he needs our help."

"And I care because…?"

"You're trying not to be evil anymore. Or did you have another relapse and will I have to send Angel over there to beat some sense into you?"

Muttering to himself, Lindsey agrees to drive over and pick her up. At least he still has the truck, whatever smart-alek comments the beauty queen makes about it, scraping dangerously close to the truth with her cracks about working class boys. She hits a nerve there, so maybe he's just a little too sharp in reminding her that at least his daddy paid his taxes. By the time they arrive at Gunn's place, she's sulking and he's quietly simmering.

He cheers up a little bit when the first thing Cordelia does is crack the wrong guy over the head with an axe. He doesn't even have to say anything, just stand in the background and watch the mortification unfold.

"Hey, Cordy," he says. "You're right. This _was_ worth missing the game for."

"_Shut up_." Gunn and Cordelia say this simultaneously.

Of course, Lindsey's a lot less happy when they walk outside and find that someone has stolen his damn truck. At least Gunn is willing to help find it. The one thing he and Lindsey can agree on is that a man's truck is a man's truck and therefore inviolable. Gunn would probably have been less considerate if it was a BMW or a merc, but the truck is all Lindsey has of his working class roots and therefore something very different.

"A man's truck is his soul," Gunn says on their way to see someone named Henry, and just for that Lindsey resents having to save his life a little bit less.

Cordelia rolls her eyes.

"Whatever," she says in a voice that clearly implies they're both retarded.

One trip to the emergency room later – long story – and they find out where the truck is. Perhaps it's just a little bit too easy, but Lindsey is just glad to see his baby. If the other two weren't there he might have kissed it, and as it was there was a lot of borderline-inappropriate stroking.

"Okay, we found your truck," Gunn says. "Now will you two _please_ get –"

It's about then that they're attacked by a demon with a grudge against Gunn. Honestly Lindsey doesn't particularly care. All he wants is to get Cordelia safely back home, so that Angel won't kill him for letting his seer get herself killed. But Cordelia won't leave Gunn, and the last time Lindsey tried to drag her anywhere against her will he got a knee in the balls for his trouble. So he kind of has to stay. It won't be the first time he's had to face work-related risks.

"Can we please just go?" He yells at Cordelia whilst a vamp tries to strangle him.

"We're not leaving Gunn!" She hits the vamp in the neck with her axe, and the next moment there's a puff of dust and Lindsey can breathe again.

"He made this problem, he can deal with it!" He rasps, rubbing at his throat. He looks up and sees a vampire lunging at Cordelia. "Cordy, look out!"

He shoves her out the way, and gets an armful of angry vampire and no stake to save him. He's slammed up against the truck and the next moment there's a sharp pain at his neck and the vampire's making this really gross slurping sound. This inarticulate horror fills him and he's struggling without much success. His body is going into shock, and the vamp has tasted blood. It's pretty much a foregone conclusion from this point on.

"_Lindsey_!" Cordy screams. She hacks at the vamp with the axe. It stops feeding for long enough to backhand her, sending her to the ground.

"Wait your turn, sweetheart," it says, and turns to focus it's attention back on Lindsey. But the beauty queen is up on her feet again, and there's a furious light in her eyes that makes her, for the first time, incomparably beautiful to Lindsey. Not as beautiful as the stake in her hand, though.

"That's _my_ evil lawyer," she says, and slams the stake through the vamp's back. As it puffs into dust, Lindsey stares stupidly at Cordelia, one hand clasped to his bleeding neck.

"You said my name," he says.

"Yeah." She refuses to look even remotely embarrassed. "Happens when you work together for three months. And I was getting tired of making up new insults all the time."

"You said my name," he says again.

She raises an eyebrow.

"You know, you're usually coming up with snappy rejoinders by this point."

"Yeah, well I think I lost a lot of blood and I'm just going to pass out now. So if you'll excuse me…"

And Lindsey does exactly that.

* * *

When he comes to, he's on his couch in his crappy apartment, and Cordelia is patching up his neck.

"Is the truck okay?" He says.

She sniffs.

"Figures that would be the first thing you'd say. Hold still."

"But is it – ow!"

"Hold _still_," she snaps, holding him down and dabbing something at his neck. "Your stupid truck is fine. It's parked outside."

"You didn't drive, did you?" He has horrible visions of her behind the wheel.

"No, Wesley drove. He's in the kitchen right now, brewing a restorative tea. Or something that smells like crap."

"Wesley?"

"He and Angel showed up about ten seconds after you went all 'Gone with the Wind' on us."

"'s not right."

"Huh?"

"Scarlett O'Hara was a greedy, mercenary bitch who lied, stole and killed to get where she did and never fainted a day in her life."

"She'd be a big role model for you, then?" Cordelia's fingers smoothing down the plaster belie the harshness of her words. "I mean, Angel looks nothing like Clark Gable but they both have the tall, dark, mysterious thing going on. Although, given a choice, I'd go for Gable. At least he had a sense of humor."

Lindsey thinks about various ways he could respond to that statement. He could insult her taste in men, insult Angel (always an option), or address that nebulous truth she's put out there with surprising subtlety. In the end, he decides it's too much effort, and he doesn't want to upset the acceptance he's finally won.

He closes his eyes, then opens them again quickly.

"Gunn okay?"

"Fine. He says thanks for the assist, by the way. Well, he didn't say it. But I know he meant it."

"Didn't we almost get him killed?"

"No, that was him," Cordy said cheerfully. "Turns out the Powers were trying to tell him… well, nevermind. But the point is, we actually saved his life."

"Huh." Lindsey closes his eyes again.

"Lindsey?" Cordelia's voice is lacking it's usual edge.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

It's been a while since someone has said that to him and meant it. Or wasn't being duped. Or wasn't trying to dupe him.

"s'okay," he says, and goes back to sleep.

* * *

Things are better after that. Apparently nearly getting yourself killed trying to save three spooky little kids doesn't cut _nearly_ as much ice as saving Angel's personal seer. It upgrades him in Cordelia's eyes from 'pile of disgusting, possibly acidic demon faeces someone left on my brand new carpet' to 'personal slave'. She bosses him around, criticizes his haircut, his clothes, his car, his accent, steals his coffee, and won't tell him where she hid the chocolate. It takes him about half a day to realize this is her when she's being friendly. God help him if she decides to be affectionate. Wesley thaws a little, and Angel even gives him a tiny nod of approval during their weekly staff meeting. Apparently, Cordelia's acceptance is enough for them. If she says you're in, you're in.

Gunn stays away for a few days and when he finally shows up, he's quiet and subdued. He greets Lindsey with a thump to the shoulder, though, and says 'hey, man. What's up?' It's a huge step up from his usual policy of either ignoring Lindsey or threatening bodily harm. That afternoon, he walks into Lindsey's office (which is only Lindsey's by way of neither Cordelia, Angel, nor Wesley being present) with a couple of swords and announces that Lindsey sucks ass at fighting.

"I am aware of that and I don't care," Lindsey says calmly. He has his own kinds of weapons. A pretty face and a razor-keen mind had gotten him more or less unscathed through Wolfram and Hart. He doesn't need fists or swords.

Gunn rolls his eyes and tosses a sword at him. Lindsey barely manages to avoid cutting himself catching it.

"On your feet, pretty boy. I'm going to teach you how to tell one end of the sword from the other. Maybe then you won't fold so easily next time."

* * *

When Angel brings the human Darla to the Hyperion, Lindsey falls in love. Why shouldn't he? She's elegant, genteel – a far cry from the roughened hands and nasal drawl of his working class mother – and she used to be Angel's. An irresistible combination.

Cordelia sees the look on his face and whacks him over the head with a rolled up issue of _Cleo_.

"Ow!" He rubs at his head. "What was that for?"

"I know that look, mister. Having Angel running around after her is bad enough. You falling for her would be a disaster. So wipe that puppy-dog look off your face this minute."

"But – "

"No buts!" She waves the Cleo magazine at him menacingly. "Back to work!"

And that, oddly enough, is that.

* * *

Angel destroys Lindsey with two words.

"You're fired."

Lindsey can't believe it. He'd quit his job, risked literal fiery retribution, and taken a serious downgrade in lifestyle, just for Angel to go and _fire_ him? If he could get his hands on Darla, he'd strangle her. Or stake her. Whichever.

"What are we going to do now?" Cordelia says this, in tones of utter bewilderment. She is standing on the sidewalk beside Lindsey, box of belongings in hand, looking uncharacteristically at a loss. Lindsey wonders if she's realized the visions aren't just going to go away just because Angel has had a crisis of faith. He wonders if _Angel_ has realized that.

"I'm going to get tacos on my way home." That's Gunn, who looks vaguely amused but not unsympathetic at the others' plight. "This was always just a side gig for me."

"Whatever." Lindsey grabs his stuff and walks in the direction of his truck. This might have been a side-gig for Gunn, but it was a sacred duty for Cordelia and a purpose for Wesley. Lindsey wasn't sure what it was for him. He rejects the idea of redemption before it's fully formed. He hadn't come into it looking to help the helpless, or any of that crap. He'd come into it because he couldn't stand the person in the mirror anymore. He'd come into it because he couldn't respect himself anymore, and because having Angel's respect absolved that lack somehow.

And now, he doesn't even have that.

He should get out of town, he knows that. Drive as fast and far as he can before Wolfram and Hart catch on that he's no longer a player in the Angel game. They were content to let him live because they saw some use for him – or perhaps wanted to see if some use for him presented itself – but alone he's just another loose thread. In fact, killing him might drive Angel even further into the darkness they seem to want him in.

But somehow, the road just doesn't appeal to Lindsey. He doesn't know why, but this city itches at him. He just has this feeling that it's not done with him yet, or he's not done with it. He drives as far as _Caritas_, and parks around the corner.

The place is packed, and he has to weave his way through the crowd. At least in here, he thinks, he won't have to worry about any of Wolfram and Hart's demon assassins. The Host doesn't allow violence in his club.

Squeezing past a vampire flirting with a chaos demon, he manages to step on a girl's toes.

"Ow! Geeze, why don't you watch where you're –"

"Sorry about that. I– "

They both stop at the same time.

"Cordy?" Lindsey says.

"Lindsey?" Cordy says incredulously. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing," he says quickly. Admitting that he's looking for guidance is just a little too pathetic for him. A thought strikes him. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" Cordy puts her hands on her hips. "That's a odd tone to take, when I distinctly recall that you're the evil one. For all I know, you could be brokering some evil deal or, or something."

A few weeks ago her suspicion would have been genuine. Now, her accusation is a little too half-hearted to be real.

"You're here to sing aren't you," he says.

"No," she huffs. "No, of course not… why, are you?"

"Well," he shrugs in that casual way he's perfected. "Thought I might as well get a tip from the Host. Maybe he can tell me which direction gives me the best odds of survival when Wolfram and Hart come for their pound of flesh."

"I say, fancy seeing you two here."

Lindsey looks up to see Wesley.

"Yeah, fancy," he says. "You here to sing too?"

"Well this is _so_ not pathetic," Cordelia remarks. "Good thing's Gunn's not here or that would be–"

She trails off as a sheepish-looking Gunn trudges in the doorway of the club.

* * *

Several shots of tequila later, and the four of them are singing their hearts out on stage. Lindsey must be _really_ drunk, because he'd once sworn he'd never go on-stage with someone who could mangle a tune like Cordelia.

Following that is several hours of sitting around a table downing shots and bitching about Angel, which suits Lindsey just fine. He's never appreciated how creatively insulting Cordelia could be, or how uplifting Gunn's 'we don't need the dead white guy' attitude could be. Even Wesley's half-hearted assurance that he could handle himself without Angel looking over his shoulder is kind of touching.

It's a good night, even with the competition Lindsey and Gunn get into about who could down the most shots and not throw up. Lindsey wins. Gunn might be a big tough street-fighter but Lindsey's family has spent five generations raising drinking to an art-form.

"Vampires, sloth demons – you know what's really really evil? Tequila." Cordelia says this in a muffled voice, face buried in her arms. It's been a long night, and by now the club is empty but for them.

Wesley pushes some glasses to the side.

"I need to be dead now," he announces to no one in particular.

Lindsey burps, tastes vomit, and focuses on not throwing up. Gunn doesn't look much better. If he weren't black, he'd probably be green.

"Well, well."

The Host's garish choice of clothes is almost enough to make Lindsey close his eyes. He has long suspected the Host's particular species of demon is colour blind. Now he is sure. How the hell else does the demon wear a purple shirt against green skin and _not_ throw up?

"I can see the maudlin segment of tonight's binge is in full swing. Now, don't be blue. I was very impressed with your musical recitation of pain earlier. And when I say pain, I mean mine."

As the Host speaks, he takes off his painfully bright jacket, revealing an even more painfully bright shirt underneath. This must be his plan, Lindsey decides. He's punishing them for their awful singing with his awful taste in clothes.

"Yeah." Cordy says. "Our hearts were out. You, Mr. Big - Mojo-guy, are supposed to…" She struggles to follow the thread of her thought. "…um, give us guidance now."

"She's right," says Wesley. "We came. We sang, we… fought the urge to regurgitate."

"So spill already." Cordy gives Wesley a wary look. "Not you. What are we supposed to do with our lives?" Her face contorts as she fights back a yawn. "Where do we go from here?"

The Host was busy folding his jacket.

"Oh I'd love to tell you sweetie," he said. "But when the big guys talk, I shut my yap." He lays his folded jacket behind Cordy's head, adding: "And they're about to get _real_ chatty."

Cordy throws her head back with a shriek. Lindsey by now has seen enough visions not to panic. She jerks about as if she's having a fit.

"Cordy?" Welsey is saying. "Are you alright?"

"No!"

"What'd you see?" Gunn asks, surprisingly coherant after the amount of tequila he's absorbed. Cordy groans.

"Alley. Not too far from here. A demon is dragging a girl... She's hurt - bleeding..."

Wesley gets up, and manages not to stagger.

"Let's go."

Gunn and Cordy stand, and they all head for the exit. It takes them a moment to realize that Lindsey isn't following. He's still sitting at the table, sliding an empty shot glass across the table with one finger.

"Lindsey?" Cordy says.

"C'mon, McDonald," Gunn says impatiently. "We don't exactly have a lot of time here."

Lindsey looks at the Host. He's sung and played for the Host many times, and the demon's been appropriately vague about what's in his future. Of late, he's spoken of a fork in the road, of a choice that Lindsey will have to make.

"Is this it?" He asks.

"Lindsey," Welsey says. "We have to go now, if you're coming."

"Sweetie, you know I can't give you the answers," the Host says. "But then, that's always been your problem, hasn't it? Always looking to other people for the answers to your life. Redemption, damnation, it doesn't seem to matter so long as someone's leading the way. But the day's got to come, sugar, when you take responsibility for your own destiny."

It's not the answer Lindsey's looking for. It's not even close. If he leaves now, he can be a fair way out of town before Wolfram and Hart come after him. He knows a shaman who can imbue him protective runes. It would cost a pretty penny, but he's got just enough saved.

"Lindsey!" Cordy says, already dragging the others up the stairs. "Girl dying as we speak! Socialize later!"

If he goes with them, he won't have Angel's approval or protection. He'll have their friendship, but since when has friendship helped with survival? The only thing that he knows for certain is that there's a girl dying in an alley somewhere, and that he can help her.

He pushes back the chair.

"Guys, wait up!"

Later, Lindsey will realize this is how he saved himself. With three little words.


End file.
